Seconds before pen hit page… well no, that’s not right. While writing the first sentence… no, that’s not right either. In writing the date at the top of my page, November 3, 2012, I felt the remembrance: not long before Trudy dies, or rather, I sense in this time the echo of her passing. A cavernous queasiness takes hold of my mind and my heart and my soul.
If I must remember an anniversary this morning I prefer to think of the spring tulips planted for Trudy by Grandpa Wyatt at the little house; beneath the small crabapple tree in the center of the drive, just east of the sidewalk that lead to the front door. Continue reading Come Before Winter